The Women in His Life - Barbara Taylor Bradford

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Westheim family had been left alone. This was also the case with other prominent and wealthy Jewish families who were important, and useful to the State. Then again, not one piece of Westheim property had been touched and the bank had not been closed down. Nor had he been forced to take on Aryan partners, as some Jewish businessmen had. And yet, lately, he had been assailed by worry, had started to harbour a disturbing suspicion that the situation was going to change for every Jew living under the rule of the Third Reich.

      Only a few minutes ago he had been reassuring his wife, speaking brave words to her, having no wish to underscore her smouldering anxiety. But he must confront the possibility that they might soon be in danger. Not to do so would be sheer folly. Perhaps it would be wise to leave Berlin, to leave Germany, as so many already had. He was a wealthy man. Conceivably he might be able to buy their way out, purchase exit visas and new passports. But he would need assistance to do that, the right introductions to those who could produce the necessary documents. He was fully aware that bribery, graft and corruption were commonplace in the Third Reich; it was only a question of knowing exactly who to go to in order to get what he needed. He had friends who could probably guide him in this, ease the way for him. But would they? And whom could he trust? He ran a few names through his head, pondered them carefully.

      Karl swept off the Hofjägeralle, took the car around the circle that was the Grosser Stern, passed the Siegessäule, the winged victory column that dominated its centre, and headed down towards the Brandenburg Gate.

      Ursula stared in front of her as they drove under the triumphal arch of the gate, focused her eyes on the Unter den Linden ahead. The Nazis had defaced this wide and stately avenue, the most glorious and beautiful of all the boulevards in Berlin, by erecting rows of soaring columns down its centre and along its sides. Each one of these columns was surmounted by a giant Nazi eagle, and because the columns were floodlit they were thrown into relief, stood out dramatically against the darkening night sky.

      Typical Nazi theatrics, Ursula thought, loathing what she saw. To her the columns were towering reminders of the domination, tyranny and menace the Third Reich represented. She averted her eyes.

      They were passing the Pariserplatz. Her parents had owned a house on that elegant square, and she had grown up there, had been married to Sigmund from that house, and it was there that her mother had died in 1935, and then her father, only last year. The square had played such an important part in her life: it evoked a time past, the Berlin she loved and which, tragically, was now gone forever.

      She sighed under her breath and tried to shake off her despondency. Karl had turned right and was driving up the Wilhelmstrasse where the British Embassy was located at number seventy. They were about to arrive at their destination, and she adjusted her expression, fixed a smile on her face as she had learned to do.

      There was a lineup of cars in front of theirs. Some were official and from various ministries, others were diplomatic and bore stiff little flags on their bonnets; she recognised the colours of Italy and America and Spain.

      A moment later Ursula was alighting from the car, and in the split second she waited for Sigmund to come around from the other side, she glanced up the Wilhelmstrasse. Only a few doors away from her stood the Reich Chancellery where Hitler was ensconced around the clock with his sinister henchmen, and she could not help wondering what diabolical schemes they were hatching at this moment. Her insides shrivelled at the thought, and a shudder ran through her.

      And then Sigmund was by her side, smiling down at her, and she tried to smile back, but it was rather faltering. If he noticed this he showed no sign of it, simply took hold of her elbow firmly and led her forward through the huge doors above which the Union Jack fluttered in the cold wind.

      The sight of the red, white and blue flag lifted her spirits. It was not merely a banner of coloured cloth that was the national emblem of Great Britain, but a symbol of freedom, democracy and justice.

      

      Sir Nevile Henderson, His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador in Berlin, stood in the hall situated between the two reception rooms at the top of the broad staircase, greeting his guests as they arrived. He was his usual smiling self, debonair and full of charm.

      Sigmund and Ursula edged along slowly behind the other guests, until at last Sir Nevile was shaking her hand and warmly welcoming her, before turning his attention to Sigmund. Ursula stood by, waiting. The two men exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and then together she and Sigmund stepped away, and headed for one of the two rooms where drinks were being served before dinner.

      The reception was already in full swing.

      The room was thronged and there was a sense of glamour about the gathering, a feeling of tension and excitement in the air, as there generally was at such affairs in Berlin these days. This was especially so at the foreign embassy parties which tended to be international in scope and peopled with interesting characters.

      Shimmering crystal chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, masses of flowers were banked around the room, adding to the festive mood, and a small string quartet played quietly in a corner. White-gloved waiters in tail coats were fleet of foot amongst the crowd, expertly balancing immense silver trays which held either glasses of champagne or assorted canapés. And gazing down on the scene was the life-size portrait in oils of King George VI, newly crowned last year, who had stepped into the breach after his weak and shallow brother, Edward, had abdicated and rushed off to marry Mrs Simpson, the American adventuress.

      ‘It’s quite a turnout this evening,’ Sigmund murmured in Ursula’s ear, escorting her into the room, glancing about as he did.

      Instantly, a waiter came to a standstill in front of them, offered them champagne. Sigmund thanked him, took two flutes, handed one to Ursula and clinked his glass to hers. He looked about. ‘I don’t see Irina, do you?’

      Ursula followed his gaze, swiftly surveyed the gathering. ‘No, I’m afraid not, Sigi. Perhaps she’s in the other reception room. And you’re correct, it is a crowd tonight.’

      She saw that the diplomatic corps was present in full force, spotted several ambassadors she knew by sight, as well as the familiar faces of two British foreign correspondents who were talking to their American colleague, William Shirer. Mingled in amongst them were Government ministers, military officers, high ranking Nazis, members of the German aristocracy and prominent Berliners.

      Some of the young internationals who lived in Berlin were also present. She knew from Irina that they were popular with the staffs of the British and French Embassies because they were charming, entertaining and good looking, and enlivened these formal diplomatic functions. The majority had titles and were Hungarians, Slavs, Lithuanians, Austrians, Poles, Rumanians, or White Russians like Irina. With their families, they had been displaced from their homelands by the erratic swings of political power in a shifting Europe inexorably changed some twenty years ago, first by the Russian Revolution and then the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

      Ursula’s eyes roved the room and she noticed how well dressed everyone was. Elegance was the order of the evening, it seemed. The men wore dinner jackets or military uniforms; the women were decked out in their finery, and most of them boasted a certain chic, a stylishness that was eye-catching. A few women clinging to the arms of some of the Nazis looked out of place, flashy in their gaudy dresses splattered with sequins or diamanté, their hands, arms and throats plastered with vulgar jewellery.

      In the crowd she saw a familiar burnished head, a piquant smiling face in which vivid blue eyes danced, a small hand waving in greeting to her.

      Ursula’s face instantly lit up. ‘Sigi, Irina’s over there!’

      ‘Yes, I just saw her myself. Come on, darling.’

      He took hold of Ursula’s arm and they hurried over to their friend. Irina came to meet them half way, her black lace dress of ballerina length swirling around her slim ankles, and a moment later they were hugging and kissing each other, and laughing.

      Irina had a gay effervescent personality and was full of joie de vivre, and again it struck Ursula that her extraordinary life, marked by tragedy, upheaval and turbulence, had done little,

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